


Soyons Unis

by NervousAsexual



Category: Casablanca (1942)
Genre: And/Or Queerplatonic Relationships, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Cuddling & Snuggling, Day At The Beach, Depression, Hopeful Ending, Long-Term Relationship(s), Multi, Polyamory, Post-Canon, Unusual Flavors of Ice Cream, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:47:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27410689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NervousAsexual/pseuds/NervousAsexual
Summary: Maybe even when the sky is clear and the sun is warming his bones he's felt the rain and the darkness too often to enjoy it.Rick struggles with the transient nature of happiness.
Relationships: Rick Blaine & Victor Laszlo & Ilsa Lund, Rick Blaine/Victor Laszlo/Ilsa Lund
Comments: 21
Kudos: 60
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Soyons Unis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FairestCat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FairestCat/gifts).



There's something about beaches that doesn't sit right with Rick. Could be how happy all the people on the beaches seem to be. There's always a family, a fair-complected father and mother and the small child who holds each of their hands and doubtfully looks at the crashing waves. The extraordinary ordinariness of a married couple laughing, lifting their hands so that the child can swing back and forth and shriek with glee, makes something in the back of his heart writhe. He has never expected that for himself, not even in Paris.

Maybe it's easy to watch the enjoyment everyone else is getting from a common strip of sand set against the water and think that is something he will never feel. Maybe even when the sky is clear and the sun is warming his bones he's felt the rain and the darkness too often to enjoy it.

Maybe he's afraid. The ocean's a hell of a lot bigger than a man, bigger than Nazis and nations, let alone any two people's happiness. Some days he looks at the water and something inside whispers to him that he should walk out into the ocean until he can't walk anymore. It's a stupid, unplanned thought, but he's afraid that one day he will listen for the small still voice that tells him he has to keep going and he'll hear nothing at all.

Maybe it's the heat. Maybe it's the smell of the salt and rot, maybe it's the crowds or the noise or the indulgence of it all, or maybe it's him. Maybe he's just so broken that even something as natural as land meeting sea feels like pain.

The sand gets in his shoes, too. Could be that.

He sits alone on the towel, feeling foolish in his long sleeves and trousers, and watches everyone else enjoying the early summer day. Five years ago he would've hated them for finding happiness so easily when it's so difficult for him, but today it only makes him glad. Life is short and the world is brutal, and if somebody can enjoy something, even for a little while, they should be out there grabbing all the gusto they can.

So when Ilsa jogs up, her smile glowing even brighter than the yellow A-line swimsuit she's wearing, and wrings out her hair over his shoes, he can smile back and it's a smile he means.

"Move over," she says, hopping from one foot to the other. "The sand is _hot_!"

He does and she hops onto the towel before dropping down beside him.

"Thank you," she says when he hands her the sandals she left behind. She quickly slides them on and buckles the straps around her ankles. As a gust of wind rolls through she shivers. "The sand is hot but the wind is freezing. Maybe you were right to wear long sleeves."

It's polite of her to say, even if it's untrue. He lifts an arm and she sidles her absolutely soaked body up next to him. The flared skirt of the swimsuit sticks to the towel and she tips over against his chest and now they're both soggy.

"Sorry." She collapses on him in a fit of giggling.

It brings a smile to his face. "You're not sorry."

"I'm not. But I'm sorry that I'm not sorry." She sighs, wraps her arms around him, snuggles in. "I needed this."

He's happy for her and yet he can't shake this fear over some catastrophe he can't name. He never thought he was an anxious man--after all, when the Nazis came to Paris he wasn't afraid. Funny thing is, he's never afraid of the things he should be. Paris, Spain, Ethiopia, none of it scared him, but right now in the face of happiness he's terrified. It's like any good thing to come into his life will be ripped away eventually so there's no point in enjoying it.

"It's oyster-flavored."

He and Ilsa both raise their heads, squinting into the sun, and there's resistance leader Victor Laszlo, silhouetted against the sky like an avenging angel in swimming trunks, wielding in his hands three ice cream cones.

That's a sight that he will never be used to. "There's no such thing."

"Take that up with the ice cream vendor, not me." Laszlo hands Ilsa a cone. His fingers brush her cheek, and takes his hand in hers. They give each other a look that says more in a few moments than Rick could say with a pen and paper and all the time in the world.

For the space of a breath neither of them moves or speaks or even breathes, hardly, and Rick focuses on the water. Eventually Laszlo squeezes her fingers and lets go.

"It is made with oysters," he says, taking the extra cone from his other hand. He holds it out to Rick and hesitates a moment before releasing it into his grip. "Hope you're not allergic."

"Guess we'll find out." He tilts his ice cream cone toward Ilsa's. "Here's looking at you."

Ilsa smiles and bumps the cones together.

He gives the ice cream the once-over as Laszlo sits on Ilsa's other side. Doesn't look too different from vanilla and for a moment he wonders if Laszlo's pulling his leg, but it is more of an off-white than a true vanilla...

He looks over at the other two, and they look back at him. Their own cones are untouched. "Oh, I see how it is. I eat it first and if I die you know not to eat it."

Ilsa laughs and even Laszlo cracks a smile. "Together, then. On three. One... two... three."

He takes a lick of the cone and it just about knocks him over. It's not sweet the way ice cream usually is. It's strong, whatever it is, and it's definitely oyster-flavored.

"I'm not sure I like this," Ilsa says.

"It is... different." Laszlo looks like he regrets his lick too.

Well, it is different. Not necessarily bad, though. Rick has another taste.

"I'm glad someone likes it," Laszlo says. "It feels very..." His gazes flicks back and forth on the ground, the way it always does when he's searching for an English word that he can't quite find. "It feels like a foolish thing to have wasted money on."

"Makes sense that I'd like it, then." The flavor is starting to grow on him. "You are looking at a professional fool, after all."

Laszlo scoffs.

He and Laszlo have had a hard time sussing out where they stand with each other. It's hard to think you owe another man something, especially when that something is your life. Though he's told Laszlo time and again that there's no debt, this is America, they're starting over with a clean slate, things are still stiff and awkward at times. He thinks that Laszlo is under the impression he says it's all even out of some noble instinct, but in reality Rick thinks back to Casablanca and takes no pride in the man so embittered to everything that he would let Laszlo fall into Nazi hands purely out of spite.

When he finishes his ice cream Ilsa hands him hers, and when he's finished hers Laszlo's is all but melted and the hero of the Czech resistance is crunching away at the baked cone, his hands sticky with oyster-flavored ice cream.

Ilsa rests her head against Rick's shoulder and holds one of Laszlo's hands in hers, and she looks so relaxed, so completely different from the way she looked in Morocco. Even with the addition of a few grey hairs she looks more like the girl he fell in love with in Paris than the haunted, restless woman he tried to hate in Casablanca. She deserves this, even if they can't go back to the way they were before.

He's scared as hell that one wrong move will bring it all down like a house of cards. Something will happen, everything that has made Ilsa and Laszlo happy will fall away, and it will be all his fault.

Maybe he should have worn swim trunks. She wanted to swim and he refused to wear those ridiculous swim trunks and he's too... something, to let other people see much more of his skin.

Laszlo doesn't seem to mind. If either of them has an excuse to wear sleeves it's him. But even though people will gawk Laszlo lets the world see his scars. In a way they're like medals of honor, proof that when the chips were down he'd fought for what he believed in and damn the cost.

Ilsa chuckles, a light, warm laugh that feels good in his ear.

"What?" he asks.

"I have a crick in my neck. Isn't it silly that's what bothers me, even when..."

She doesn't finish but she doesn't have to. She's afraid too. They all are. "Maybe it's time to lean against him."

"Hm." She smiles. "I suppose that might work." She lifts her head off his shoulder and moves over to lean against Laszlo, but not before kissing Rick gently on the cheek.

His heart ties itself in knots.

"And you?"

"Hm?" He looks up to find Laszlo smiling at him. "What about me?"

"Who will you lean against?"

"Nobody. Seem to be stayin' upright pretty well on my own."

"You know you want to," Ilsa says faintly. She nuzzles her head against Laszlo's shoulder.

"There is always room, Rick."

He doesn't believe that. He can't believe that.

Laszlo holds out an arm, exactly the same way Rick held his out to Ilsa.

"Three's a crowd."

Now Ilsa holds out an arm as well.

"Now, that's not fair odds."

"No," Laszlo agrees. Neither of them lower their arms.

He has to smile. The two of them do love to gang up on him.

"You're going to have one interesting tan line," he tells them. He doesn't want to crush Ilsa between him and Laszlo so he ends up laying across her lap, his head propped up on Laszlo's thigh.

"There are worse things," Ilsa says. She runs her hand down his arm to lace their fingers together.

He lays there for a while, looking out at the water and the families enjoying the experience of being together. It's only for a moment, he tells himself, just to get them off the subject. He'll sit back up in a minute.

Laslo's fingers comb idly through his hair and it feels good. It all feels so good and he's afraid. Someday he'll lose this.

Ilsa hums quietly to herself. Laszlo says nothing but sighs, deeply and contentedly. They're scared too. He knows that. This moment can't last forever. He's afraid but the sun is warm and so are Laszlo and Ilsa. He's afraid, and he's comfortable, and he's content. He'll just have to enjoy it as best he can now. He yawns so hard that his jaw pops and Ilsa laughs and Laszlo chuckles.

It can't last forever but at least he'll always have Paris. He'll always have Paris, and he'll always have a warm summer's day in America.


End file.
